There was a great series of strips in Garry Trudeau’s Doonesbury where journalist Rick Redfern was assigned a series of columns about being a hands-on father. He and his wife, legislative counsel Joanie Caucus, have a young child, and Rick has stayed at home with little Jeff in the interest of journalism. Rick ends up spending more time writing about parenting than actually parenting, and at the week’s end, Joanie delivers an apt and scathing observation that, if a woman tried to write a newspaper series about being a hands-on parent, it would be banal, but if a man changes a diaper, it’s worthy of column inches.

Those strips came to mind as I was reading Yumi Unita’s Bunny Drop (Yen Press), though not because it reaffirms Joanie’s argument. It may be about a man accepting the responsibilities of fatherhood, but Unita refrains from any grandiose proclamations on her protagonist’s virtue or courage. He’s learning to be an adult, which is ideally the most normal thing in the world.

Daikichi is 30. He attends his grandfather’s funeral and learns that the old man left behind a six-year-old daughter. Daikichi is shocked by his relatives’ attempts to dodge responsibility for the withdrawn little girl, and he impulsively offers to care for Rin. Under another creator, this might be fodder for wacky domestic comedy, with the bachelor dad screwing up in ostensibly hilarious ways. (The back-cover text tries to imply that this is the case. Only one sentence ends with a humble period, with the rest sporting exclamation and question marks.) Unita’s approach is in a much lower key, and I think the results are distinctly satisfying.

Daikichi is neither a natural parent nor a disastrous one. He has good intentions and no experience, so he does what any sensible person would do. He asks friends and relatives for advice when he encounters an issue that’s beyond his ken. He does research on the web to find expert opinions. He makes changes to his life that are in both his and Rin’s best interests, like picking the right day care center for Rin or adjusting his work responsibilities so he can spend more time with her. If it sounds a little banal, it is, but it’s banal in a very rewarding way.

But Bunny Drop isn’t a documentary, and Unita is skilled at finding the humor in her characters’ situation without overdoing it. Daikichi may be a functioning adult, but he is immature in some ways. He’s awkward around women and isn’t naturally fond of children, so his relationship with Rin can seem like that of bickering siblings rather than guardian-child. And Rin is a very believable kid. As she shakes off her reserve, she does some spot-on kid things. I loved her indignation at Daikichi’s mistaken identification of a beloved cartoon rabbit as a dog. The goofy bits make it all the more satisfying when Daikichi steps up as a guardian and Rin thaws a bit in response to his efforts.

Unita’s art is unglamorous in just the right way. It fits the slice-of-life style of the story. Daikichi is supposed to be kind of ugly, and he is, in fact, kind of ugly. Rin’s body language is telling. When other characters discuss her mood, you can see it on the page in her facial expressions and posture. Settings are sufficiently detailed to create those familiar landscapes – home, work, school, the train. The pages don’t exactly dazzle, but they serve the story’s style very well.

I hope Bunny Drop enjoys commercial success for a few reasons beyond the fact that it’s intriguing and well-crafted. It’s in the still-risky josei category for adult women, originally serialized in Shodensha’s Feel Young. (It’s rated for teens, though, so that shouldn’t be a sales barrier.) It also presents a desirable, alternative fantasy object in Daikichi. He’s not some controlling, infallible prince type. He acknowledges his shortcomings, he listens to people, and he’s open with his feelings, but he’s not so drearily sensitive that you start inching towards the bar.

I’m not going to argue that JiUn Yun’s Time and Again (Yen Press) will have the same cultural durability, but the book kind of reminds me of a character played by the young Barbara Stanwyck: sexy, funny, moving and often ruthless. It’s about an exorcist-for-hire who seems more inclined to give his clients what they deserve than what they request.

The malicious charm elevates the book from the already strong pack of ghost-hunter comics. Baek-On, the exorcist, is a lazy drunk. The delicate elegance of his wardrobe is undone almost entirely by the bags under his eyes from last night’s bender. And his skills with the unquiet dead are virtually moot in balance with his indifference towards the unquiet living. For Baek-On, exorcism isn’t a calling; it’s a job, and barely that. Dignity is a paycheck.

Ho-Yeon, Baek-On’s assistant and bodyguard, may view things a little differently. He’s certainly fresher than Baek-On, and he seems more compassionate than his employer, but he’s not quite forceful enough to make Baek-On do anything Baek-On doesn’t care to do. That’s all to the good, because a sober, diligent Baek-On would be no fun at all.

A sober, diligent Time and Again wouldn’t be nearly as much fun either. Rather than telling the specific story of her spiritual mercenaries, Yun seems more interested in the mechanics and possibilities of the ghost story itself. Half of the chapters in this volume require no participation from Baek-On or Ho-Yeon, wandering off to other realms of supernatural despair. While the protagonists may vanish, the tone remains the same. Yun has a real knack for blending heartbreak and horror.

The other running thread is how lanky and gorgeous the illustrations are. While Yun favors long, lean figures, there’s a satisfying variety of body type and facial expression on display. Yun doesn’t shy away from low comedy or gruesome imagery, either. It’s just the right kind of toolbox for this kind of work.

I would have been eager to read the second volume in any case, but Yun ups the ante with an off-kilter cliffhanger. What kind of parent, you may wonder, could unleash a Baek-On onto the world? Yun teases an answer to that question, and it involves a bouffant that might be the most ominous image in the book. I can’t wait to find out more about Baek-On’s mother.